It's A Self Preservation Thing
by PlonkerOnDaLoose
Summary: They don't talk. It's a self-preservation thing. KYRO one-shot


**A/N: **I was watching _Love, Actually _(yes, again, I know. It's my ultimate feel-good movie. I dare anyone to watch it and not smile all the way through) and the relationship between two of the characters just hit me. It seemed perfect for a one-shot.

Beta'd by _**aiRo25writes **_

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**It's A Self-Preservation Thing**

_  
If you should ask then maybe they'd__  
__Tell you what I would say__  
__True colours fly in blue and black__  
__Blue silken sky and burning flag__  
__Colours crash, collide in blood-shot eyes  
If I could, you know I would__  
__If I could, I would  
Let it go__  
__This desperation__  
__Dislocation__  
__Separation__  
__Condemnation__  
__Revelation__  
__In temptation__  
__Isolation__  
__Desolation__  
__Let it go__  
__And so fade away  
__I'm wide awake__  
Wide awake  
I'm not sleeping_  
'Bad' – U2

.

His girl became Mrs. Bobby Drake on November twenty-first. In truth, she wasn't actually his girl. She never was his girl, nor will she ever be. It was only an adjective, His, but it stuck, like a name. His girl. In a way, she will always be his girl.

Bobby has no idea. How could he? How could he not? But there's no one blinder than the man who just doesn't want to see.

He's best man, of course, in charge of embarrassing speeches, getting fuck drunk and flirting with the bridesmaids and all unofficial photography. They enlisted a professional to film the day, but he wants something for himself, one last goodbye, something he can call on when the sky is grey. Who will buy this beautiful morning? and all that.

"No surprises, right?" Bobby is practically shitting himself.

They're standing up by the altar, backs to the congregation, waiting, waiting, waiting for the doors to open and the music to play. Well … Bobby is waiting.

He's never really believed in God, but now he's praying to whatever's up to there … to do nothing. There's a war. And they deserve this, this one day of happiness, his best friend and his girl. Because she is his girl.

But doesn't he deserve happiness too?

He shakes his head. "'Course not." He doesn't know who he's answering.

"Not like the stag night."

"Unlike the stag night," he agrees with a nod.

"No prostitutes hiding under the altar?"

"None whatsoever."

"And you admit that they were a mistake."

For the day that's in it, he concedes. "I do."

"And it would've been much better if they'd not turned out to be men?"

Awkward. "That is true."

The doors burst open. Winter sunlight, more white than yellow, floods the room and there she is, an angel wreathed in Heaven's light. There is music playing but to him it sounds like a dirge. And he's wearing black.

"G'luck, mate," he whispers. And he means it. He does.

Bobby nods, bracing himself, and steps up.

He steps back, camera at the ready. Every second is precious. What does it matter? No one will see this tape but him. It's a self-preservation thing.

.

**xXxXxXxXxXx**

.

There is no such thing as a simple phone call. A simple phone call finished Nixon. And, just so, a simple phone call finishes John.

They finish talking and Bobby says, "She wants to ask you a favour."

"Sure, whatever."

"Thanks. And, er, be nice."

"I'm always nice," John snaps.

Bobby sighs. "You know what I mean, Johnny. Be friendly."

"I'm always– "

"John?"

"Oh. Hi. How was the honeymoon?"

How was the honeymoon? Christ.

Better than the weather, though, or the decline of Western Civilisation.

"Great, great," she replies with restrained enthusiasm. From experience, she knows not to offload on him. "It was really great."

"So, what can I do for you?" he asks bluntly. Get it over with quick. A firing squad up against the wall, a little white hankie pinned over his heart, screaming out: Shoot Here! Here Where It Hurts!

She's hesitant. "It's only a _tiny_ favour, swear it. I've just tried the wedding video and it's a disaster. It's come out all blue and wobbly."

Tragic.

"That's too bad."

"Yeah, well, I remember you filming a lot and I wondered if I could look at it."

He's scrambling now. "I didn't really …"

"Please. All I want is one shot of me in a wedding dress that isn't turquoise."

He folds. How can he resist that voice?

"I'll have a look, but I'm pretty sure I wiped it, so don't get your hopes up."

"Thanks, John. You're a lifesaver." She means it, her voice full of warmth. He hears Bobby in the background. "See ya."

She hangs up quickly, like the receiver was some sort of poisonous snake. A spider, maybe, all hairy with eight legs and eight eyes.

They don't talk. It's a self-preservation thing.

.

**xXxXxXxXxXx**

.

John Allerdyce, this year's wildcard for the Pulitzer Prize, lives alone in organised squalor in a house meant for two people. The doorbell rings. He's disinclined to get it, but does anyway. He does a lot of things he's disinclined to.

"Banoffee pie?" she asks, thrusting the box under his nose.

He recoils as politely as possible. "No, thanks."

What is she doing here? Here? His one her-free place. Maybe he should have put up a sign on the door.

"Thank God," she laughs. "You would've broken my heart if you'd said yes."

"Right, well, lucky you."

He's tempted to rip the box from her hands and stuff the entire thing into his mouth, swallow it whole, see how you like it. It's most inconvenient, you know, living with a ghost. You can have any girl, but not the one you want. Playing The Smiths over and over again doesn't help. Please, please, please let me get what I want.

"Can I come in?" she asks, doing a little dance on the doorstep.

"Er, yeah, well, I'm a bit busy."

Er? Er isn't even a word. How come she can use coherent sentences? It's so unfair, so unfair.

"I was just passing and I thought we might check that video thing out. I thought I might be able to swap it for some pie." She offers the fucking pie again, then, sensing failure, whips out a trusty bag of candy. She phases through him into the hallway. "Or maybe M&Ms?"

John hates M&Ms. He bets she knows what candy Bobby hates, bet she doesn't try trade with him.

"Actually, I was serious," he says, his tone frayed. They drift down the hallway to the kitchen. He supposes he'll have to make her some coffee go with that pie. "I don't know where it is. I'll have a look tonight."

She sighs. The pie goes away. "John. Can I say something?"

He shrugs. "S'free country."

"I know you're Bobby's best friend, and I know you've never particularly warmed to me." He opens his mouth in dispute but she silences him. "Please, hear me out. We've never got … friendly. But I hope that can change. I'm nice. I really am. Apart from my terrible taste in pie and … Well. It would be great if we could be, you know, like, friends."

Friends? The word has a strange ring to it. Like a raw egg. Slimy and cold and slippery – yet nourishing, strengthening – but it's not finished, not right – and with potential for disease.

Boxers drink raw eggs. And he was a fighter. Wasn't he?

"Absolutely," he agrees with absent fervour. They're in the living room. "Absolutely."

That smile. "Great."

"Doesn't mean we'll be able to find the video, though." He tries for a joke. "I had a good forage when you first asked and couldn't find it, so …"

She runs a finger along a shelf of burned DVDs in jewel cases, labels scrawled down the sides with a Sharpie. She holds one out to him.

"This one says 'Bobby and Kitty's Wedding'." Smiling, eyebrows raised. "Should we give it a go? See what happens?"

"Er, yeah, well, wow, that, that could be it." He runs a hand through his hair.

"Do you mind if I...?" She slots the disc into the machine, firing it up.

"I've probably taped over it," he says quickly. A bark of laughter. "Almost everything's episodes of Buffy."

But it's too late. There she is, framed in light in the doorway, a little grainy, but still her. His girl.

"Oh, bingo," she breathes. She sits down, gazing. "That's beautiful."

It follows her all around, up the aisle, saying her vows.

Turns to him, so happy. "Well done, you … Oh, that's gorgeous … Thank you so much, John, this is exactly what I was hoping for." A small laugh. "I look quite pretty." As if this was an uncommon occurrence. There she is, the wedding kiss. You can only see Bobby's jaw. It's all her. His girl. "You've stayed rather close," she jokes.

They stand there and wait, lambs for the slaughter, as she listens to the speeches, cuts the cake, dances.

She opens her mouth to say something, but doesn't.

On the screen she dances, dances and dances. And then leaves, His girl, who isn't his girl, with Bobby.

She turns again. Her voice is soft. She doesn't understand, but then she does. "They're all of me."

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah."

She's struggling.

"Yes. But … You never talk to me. You always talk to Bobby … You don't _like _me."

He does what he does best. Carries on like nothing has happens. Blanks out what he doesn't want to hear.

"I hope it's useful. Don't show it around too much. Needs a bit of, um, editing." He fiddles vaguely with his hands, trying to get them to do the talking for him, but he's Australian, not Italian, and he just looks like a fool. "Look, I've got to get to a … lunch." A lie. "Early lunch." A lie. "You can just show yourself out. Close the door, okay? There's a war on, if you haven't noticed."

She's still sitting, staring at the black and white fuzz where the video has ended, unable to move. She's shocked but she's not.

He's at the door when he looks back. "It's a …" The word is hard to find, even after all this time. "Self-preservation thing."

* * *

I banged this out in literally half an hour. While it means something to me, I'm not sure what it will do for you guys. If you all went out and watched _Love, Actually_ I would consider it a triumph. Build me an arch, would you? Y'know - _Arch de Triumphe_ … Did I spell that right?

I'm thinking of writing a full-length kyro and I have a poll relating to it on my profile page; if people enjoyed this story, please check it out and vote!

As always, reviews are MORE than welcome.

Cheers, Plonksie

ps: I recant about John not liking M&Ms. In Plonker-World _everybody _likes M&Ms


End file.
